


In my heart is where you'll be

by dragon_rider



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Angst, M/M, NOH8, Pining, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-14
Updated: 2013-11-14
Packaged: 2018-01-01 10:42:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1043863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragon_rider/pseuds/dragon_rider
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris gets a chance to show his feelings for Karl without having to worry about the consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In my heart is where you'll be

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brionyjae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brionyjae/gifts).



> Inspired by [x](http://archiveofourown.org/works/390939).
> 
> Also, English isn't my first language and I don't have a beta so I apologize in advance for the mistakes.
> 
> And of course these are all lies. ~~I don't even know what I'm doing writing RPF, don't look at me.~~

Chris closes his hand around his iPhone, fishing it from the nightstand, and squints at it.

He’s just gotten confirmation for a photoshoot he’s doing tomorrow for a charitable organization, the rest of the notifications can wait until he’s blinked enough to be actually awake and stop feeling like his eyes have a coat of grit on them.

He tends to keep crazy hours when he’s at home. It’s a bad habit that he can’t seem to get rid of unless he’s been working himself to the ground so much he only cares about his bed and what’s for dinner.

Staying up until four in the morning reading possibly wasn’t the best idea, but he has the rest of the day to be lazy and take a nap to make up for it so he can look somewhat Human in the photos for the NOH8 campaign.

Or so he thinks until he keeps checking his phone and stares at an invitation for lunch.

He flails for his glasses, puts them hastily on and rereads the thing and sure enough, his heart does the same somersault he tries hard to ignore every time he has news from one particular Kiwi he knows.

“ _You’re in L.A.?_ ” he types, hits send and pushes his glasses up his nose, smearing them quite thoroughly as a result. He peeps past the stains as the screen lights up with a quick reply, “ _You mean you’re not in Auckland? Bugger._ ”  
Laughing, he keeps writing, already kicking the bed sheets off his legs to go rummage through his closet. “ _Funny. When did you get here?_ ”

It’s pathetic, he’s aware of it. It’s only nine o’clock and he doesn’t need two fucking hours to pick what to wear but halfheartedly glancing at his clothes and pacing through his room is way better than staying in bed giggling because Karl is in L.A. and wants to meet with _him_ out of all the friends he could see in the city.

He feels stupidly honored, stupidly zealous, stupidly giddy. He could just sum it up with stupid, really.

He’s stupid.

That man makes him stupid, has always done so.

“ _An hour ago. Just came from the future, which is always refreshing. Think you can make it?_ ”  
Chris bites back another laugh, shakes his head and decides against the overly enthusiastic reply that’s already in the tip of his fingers. “ _11:30, same place as usual?_ ”  
“ _OK. See you there._ ”

Once the messages stop, Chris sighs and leans against the wall. He bangs his head a couple of times against it for good measure, to keep the bubbly delight he feels at the prospect of hanging out with Karl for a little while—just the two of them— in check.

He won’t ask what Karl is doing in town. It’s probably work related. He’s been around a lot since he started filming his new TV show, enough for them to set some mimicry of a routine and always have their meals at the same place; a little restaurant downtown that has somehow escaped the paparazzi’s clutches so far, which probably has to do with the fact it’s inside of a house and the food is not really all that great but there aren’t flashes blinding him and cameras shoved in his face so for Chris it’s heaven, really, or close to it.

Chris tosses a pair of black jeans, a light blue t-shirt and a grey cardigan on the bed. Karl is probably wearing plaid and that’s always insanely easy to match—they already laughed enough when they both wore the same black and red lumberjack shirt—and this is the next casual thing that’s available, that won’t look like he put too much thought into it.

It’s wearisome, he won’t deny it; having to double and triple check everything he does so as not to give away too much of something he’s not ready to acknowledge, probably won’t ever be.

Being in love with his straight and very much taken— _married_ , with kids, a _family_ for God’s sake—friend could be the stuff for a low-budget indie movie. Chris can almost imagine some good quotes in the script, some engaging scenes between the two main characters that could never be more than close friends.

Of course it wouldn’t have a happy ending and he’d cry with it.

Just like the real thing.

***

He’s half an hour early. Karl is already perched on a table, sipping a cup of coffee, and as always he’s quick in spotting Chris and giving him his broadest, brightest smile along with a firm hug, hands lingering in his waist before they finally let go of each other—and it prickles in an indefinite, deep point in his chest; slipping his hands down Karl’s shoulders, knowing this is it, this is all he’s entitled to and it’s over already—and sit down on the table, exchanging a few words about the flight and their families.

“I’m supposed to be in Auckland this week,” Karl confides, grimaces a bit in a way that tells Chris that he probably had an argument with his wife about it, “And I’m going to be tomorrow night, but this photographer asked me to help in a charity and I didn’t want to say no, you know. Couldn’t say no.”  
Chris’ mouth goes dry, but he swallows the hysterical cough that wants out of his throat and licks his lips instead, asks, “Adam Bouska?”  
“Yeah, how do you—oh,” Karl grins, bumps Chris’ shin with his own beneath the table and seems— _is_ , because he sure as hell doesn’t have the same issues Chris does—truly happy about the sudden realization they’ll be working together in it, “You’re the other guy. That’s great, we get to work together again!”  
“Yeah, just like we wanted,” Chris ducks his head a little, but he smiles until his cheeks tingle all the same.

There’s always something so contagious and wonderful in Karl’s smile that makes it impossible not to share his joy and fuck it, Chris _is_ happy about this too. He’s going to have a hard time dealing with the aftermath, that’s for sure, but he’ll worry about that later, when he has to, won’t ruin the opportunity to enjoy working with Karl.

“Too bad it’s not a movie,” Karl says, stuffs his mouth with bagel and adds, smile still lasting, “But hey, maybe later, now that we’ll remind everyone we’re awesome together and that they should hire us.”

Chris' breath catches, but he’s quick in covering it up. When you’re in regular exposure to Karl and in love with the man, you develop survival techniques for this kind of situations, when pausing for too long and blushing would be all that it takes to ruin everything.

For all that Karl laughs and jokes, Chris knows it’d take just one slip on his part for the man to know just how deep Chris’ _man-crush_ on him runs.

He’s smart, good at reading people. Chris has always had to be careful around him.

“Whatever happens, I can always say I worked with Karl Urban and got to be so close and stare at him for hours. Can you blame me for looking at him? He’s just so dreamy,” he supports his chin on his hands and sees the moment Karl catches the reference to the Academy series Chris sometimes reads in his flights, the series he knows the geek side of Karl has memorized by now and grins as Karl gapes.

Chris might not feel the same amount of love Karl does for his character, but he likes having a comprehensive knowledge on the stuff he works in and he respects Kirk to the point where he almost doesn’t care he’ll always be Captain Kirk for some people and nothing else.

He might not take the same pride in Star Trek as Karl does, but dedicating time to study it definitely comes handy with him. Chris can practically see all the points he’s just scored in Karl’s book and isn’t that great—isn’t that completely unhealthy, disgusting too, Jesus Christ, he’s bantering. That’s it. He’s bantering with a friend.

In another life, Chris might have been able to use that to win the handsome and charming Kiwi’s heart.

In another life. Not in this one. Not in his life.

“That’s my line,” Karl says, eyes twinkling with amusement at having Chris quote Bones at him, “Seriously, I should be saying that.”  
“Beat you to it,” Chris mocks, receives the latte he ordered with a grateful nod to the completely-indifferent-to-celebrities waitress that’s always serving in here, who also always gets a generous tip from slightly-misanthropic Chris.

They keep eating and chatting. Karl steals food from his plates and Chris retaliates doing the same.  They end up ordering the same stuff twice and sharing everything up to the dessert that they eat with the same spoon because Karl insists they don’t need to ask for another one, swears he doesn’t have Herpes and makes Chris almost choke with laughter.

It’s a blessing—and a curse, but in these occasions mostly a blessing—that Karl is married, tattoo couldn’t be more obvious on his ring finger, so no one bats an eyelid at their behavior.

***

They meet in the parking lot outside the studio. Chris wishes he had more time to psyche himself up, wishes the photographer could’ve just _told_ him who he was going to be working with but he’s here already, there’s no time, and he’s determined to make this fun.

Once he’s back home, he’ll have time to mope, to—does he dare say it? The pun isn’t even funny after all the times he’s said it in his head— _pine_ for everything he’s never going to have.

They hug again—they always hug—and Karl’s hand doesn’t leave the small of his back as they walk to meet their photographer, who jumps out of his seat when he sees them.

After everyone introduces themselves—and Chris is surprised by the absolute lack of staff around, apparently there will only be them and the make-up artist, a kind of intimate atmosphere he's not sure he's going to be grateful for—Bouska declares eagerly, “I wanted you guys to surprise each other, that’s why I didn’t tell you who you’d be shooting with. It worked, I take it.”  
“Definitely,” Karl agrees, tilts his head towards Chris as he pulls him the slightest bit closer to his body. By now Chris is totally used to it, welcomes it even, how tactile Karl is has never been a secret and it has never meant anything either so Chris smiles and lets himself be led closer, “It was a great surprise.”

They change to identical clothing; white t-shirts with V necks and loose black sweatpants. They pad barefooted to the big red divan that’s in front of the white wall they’re going to be shooting in, after the make-up lady paints the NOH8 logo on their faces—Chris’ left cheek and Karl’s right, both clean-shaven exactly for that purpose—and tries to make Chris’ skin a little less painful to capture on film and also makes sure their hair has that unintentionally-good-looking quality to it before covering their mouths and telling them they’re ready.

The duct tape is constricting and pulls uncomfortably whenever Chris chuckles at Karl’s expressive faces and hands gestures he quickly takes to using—really, he’s not saying much, but he’s hilarious and Chris might start crying and ruin his make-up if he keeps it up.

“Okay, guys, I’m sure you’re familiar with our pictures,” they both nod. Bouska clasps his hands together, “Great. With your chemistry we have like half the job done already, so it shouldn’t be hard, but we’re going to switch things around a little bit this time. I want you to tell a story, I want to see the pictures and _see_ the intimacy, the love in them between you two. Let’s see how it goes, alright?”

This is exactly what Chris was dreading it’d happen. He’s prepared for it, had a feeling this would be what the photographer was looking for.  After all, it’s not hard to find two hot guys to pose together, especially in L.A. There’s no need to fly one from another continent, literally, and the guy kept repeating in the emails he sent Chris he was quite confident in his pick for this shoot.

He doesn’t waver, follows Karl as his friend settles on the divan and ignores the flutter of his heart as he extends his arms to him, waiting for Chris to somehow wrap himself around him and keep it PG at the same time.

This is one of those things you can’t think about much or you risk ruining it; making it seem forced, rehearsed, phony. Chris lets his body decide where it wants to be, lets his legs loosely straddle Karl’s thighs as he leans back on the armrest, lets his posture go languid with trust, lets his hands rest softly on Karl’s biceps and lets his lungs exhale deeply through his nose as Karl brushes his way from his temple down to his hipbone, gripping him there confidently; like he’s been doing it forever, like there’s no action more natural for his thumb than to lightly touch the tad of skin unhidden by the pants hanging a little low on Chris’ hips.

Chris doesn’t need to act for this. No one needs to know he doesn’t. No one will know because this is what they were told to do, because Chris can—for this one time, for this time alone and never again—pour everything he’s kept inside since he got to know the man in front of him, let it shine in his gaze, let it out now that it’s safe, expected.

Chris leans down, leans close just enough for his sight not to blur. He hears the flashes of the camera and counts the specks of gold in Karl’s hazel eyes. Today there’s a myriad of them, they look like rich and thick honey decorated with a little green here and there and Chris’ chest swells with gratitude and awe because he’s right between Karl’s arms, close as he’ll ever be to him, and he’s able to look at them and dissect the hazel, to study each part of what makes it almost green, almost brown, almost gold.

Of course this isn’t the first time they’ve been this close, but it’s different now. They’re not Jim and Bones; they’re two nameless lovers who want nothing but the chance to be together without being judged for it and even in the little world created by the camera lenses, the fictional world where Karl—but, oh, no, that’s the wrong name; Chris is mixing things up and maybe it wasn’t the smartest idea to give free reign to his feelings because now he knows for sure that yes, he wants this and he’ll take home the fake memory because it’s everything he’s ever going to get—is his and his alone, that could be hard.

Still, Chris is focused. No one has to know he’s focused in all the wrong things; in how warm and steady Karl’s body is against his, in how he hopes the smell of Old Spice and something else—something yearned and stolen that he can’t describe with so little time, something that was never meant for Chris to recognize or relish—something that’s definitely Karl lingers in his skin for days so he can have the chance to figure out what it is and why the only word Chris can compose is _you_ , in how Karl is so close Chris can feel his heart and it’s not fast but it’s loud and for moments he loses it, senses two hearts chasing each other to beat in the same rhythm but that can never find one another because they’re not meant to.

He guesses he should also be grateful the duct tape covers Karl’s lips so there’s no temptation for his eyes to linger lower, to torture himself further with yet another thing that will always remain out of his reach even when it’s _right there_ and this is a good thing, it is; kisses won’t be ruined forever this way, Chris will still be able to kiss without fearing to lose and forget Karl’s taste on his lips. This way, Chris will never even know what that is.

He’ll just keep wondering.

 “Yes! Yes! Yes! That’s it, that’s perfect,” the photographer could be having an orgasm from what Chris hears almost as background noise, only paying enough attention to detect directions in case they get any, “Chris, that’s beautiful, exactly what I wanted.”

Karl’s left hand, the one opposite to the side where the camera is in, touches the tape on Chris’ face, presses lightly and briefly on his lips before reaching his cheek, settles there and cups it. Chris sighs again, leans into it the slightest bit and goes with it when Karl tugs him closer, shuts his eyes as they let their foreheads touch, their noses meeting in the only type of kiss Chris will ever share with Karl.

It should be awkward. It shouldn’t feel this right but it isn’t and it does and Chris is glad the tape also muffles a little sound that makes it out of his throat because this is suddenly too much and he hopes as all hell the photographer is getting what he needs and they can be done fast.

It's not fast enough. Karl's hands feel like a brand on his skin, impossible to erase. Even if the smell doesn't go home with Chris, that will be enough. Whether it's gonna be enough to torture him or keep the memory alive, he's not sure.

It's probably going to be both.

“We’re done! You guys really don’t take bad frames, I think I have over a hundred to choose from.”

Chris stands up, breaking apart from Karl after stealing one last glance at his eyes, at the elegant line of his eyebrows, the curve of his nose, after breathing him in one last time because the excuse is over and now it’s only him and these feelings he shouldn’t have but that won’t go away because it’s not possible to be in love with two people at the same time.

Chris has loved his girlfriends but he’s always been unable to _fall_ for them, because that place in his heart is already taken and his heart doesn’t seem to mind it will keep being _empty_ , that it will always be empty if it keeps being stubborn and loving Karl and being stupid, stupid, _so_ stupid in not letting him go but it's—understandable, sadly.

How could he let go of something he never had?

He tries taking the duct tape off in one go, needs it out quick because he’s hyperventilating and has to calm down. A hand stops him, bats his own away and peels it slowly but efficiently off his skin.

It’s Trisha, the make-up artist. “Not that you’re going to do this again, Mr. Pine, but you’d hurt yourself doing that.”  
 _Maybe I don’t care if I do, maybe that’s what I want_. “Yeah, I know, thanks—sorry, I just, I wanted to breathe, you know? It was kind of smothering me,” he babbles, licks his lips and smiles at Karl who’s talking animatedly with Bouska and waving at him, beckoning him to go over and probably check the frames with them.

Chris takes a deep breath and goes.

***

Karl has to rush to the airport so Chris gives him a ride and watches him go, wondering who he was imagining as he looked at Chris like he was everything he could ever want and need.

It’s a rhetorical question, knowing as he does how much Karl has loved his wife ever since the first time he laid eyes on her.

He watches him go back to her and hopes Natalie isn’t too mad at him for taking a day to come and work when he was meant to be there with her and their children, hopes she’s quick to forgive and knows all the ways to make Karl happy and spoils him with each and every one of them.

The drive back to his home is lonely and quiet. Everything on the radio bothers him because every song has to be about love and Chris isn’t in the mood for empathy nor does he want to be more miserable hearing happy endings he will never get.

In a moment of weakness, he calls Zach using Bluetooth.

It rings until it goes to voicemail and Chris hangs up quickly, reconsidering his sudden need to have an ally in this and not trying again to get his friend on the line.

Zach wouldn’t judge him or mock him or betray his trust, of course he wouldn’t, but Chris doubts talking about this will get him anywhere, knows it won’t.

He’s never told a soul about it, has thought about confessing it to Katie and Zach every now and then but has always chickened out at the last second.

What for? It won’t change anything just as not voicing what he feels doesn’t make it any less real, any less painful.

He arrives to his place, steps out of his car and wipes his cheeks harshly, ignores the vibrations of the phone in his pocket until he’s finished opening the door and has the bulk of the front door on his back.

It’s Zach. Chris swears, realizes he probably woke him up—fucking New York and their 3 hours gap, it’s 2 in the morning over there and Chris is an awful, selfish friend—and that there’s no way he won’t crack if he picks up.

Twenty minutes later, his phone is still vibrating.

Chris answers.

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel: [It's a long way now (to you)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1147815).


End file.
